


Extension

by Aviantei



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishval Civil War, Non-Graphic Violence, One Shot, Other, Twelve Shots of Summer, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 13:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20836472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviantei/pseuds/Aviantei
Summary: [One Shot] One minute he's leading a raid into the next assigned sector that he can't remember the number to, then the next he's backed up against the wall with one glove torn, the other one missing, and an Ishvalan pointing a gun to his head. When it comes down to it, it's kind of fitting that this is how it ends. [Twelve Shots of Summer]





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**Author's Note:**

> This one shot was originally posted on fanfiction.net on July 15, 2019. It was my entry for the week six prompt, "How It Should Have Ended." Instead of an exploration of redoing an ending of something's canon, I took a more introsp;ective approach.
> 
> Warnings for Ishval War and mentions of violence, but nothing graphic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**Extension**

By: Aviantei

A _Fullmetal Alchemist_ One Shot

[Twelve Shots of Summer 6/12]

* * *

One minute he’s leading a raid into the next assigned sector that he can’t remember the number to, then the next he’s backed up against the wall with one glove torn, the other one missing, and an Ishvalan pointing a gun to his head.

“Don’t move,” the Ishvalan growls out, and Mustang has no choice but to obey. Not even the fact that he has his own gun hidden doesn’t make it any more useful. One wrong move and it’ll be a bullet to the brain, and that’s that.

When it comes down to it, it’s kind of fitting that this is how it ends. One murderer being killed by another on the battlefield.

In fact, Mustang’s kind of surprised that it’s not over yet already. Other Ishvalans have never hesitated to shoot up any number of Amestrians. Hell, some of them even keep going when they don’t have any bullets left or guns in their hands, doing whatever it takes to protect their homeland. Mustang shouldn’t even be standing anymore, let alone have enough consciousness left to wax poetic about it.

Except, he realizes, the Ishvalan’s eyes say it all. He doesn’t have that look yet, the one that’s changed all the gazes of every soldier he sees. This kid—and he’s just realizing it now that the person holding the gun to his head is nothing more than that, a teenager—hasn’t killed yet, and he’s shaking, the metal of the gun starting to move in tiny bounces across Mustang’s forehead.

It makes him realize two things at once: the first, that Mustang’s been hoping for this whole painful minute that the Ishvalan would pull the trigger and just get it over with; the second, just how entirely a selfish wish it is to make this kid a killer just so it can be over for him.

Mustang’s lips part a little, only to have the metallic taste of blood come into his mouth. Mustang wonders if _this_ is what it’s like to die, only to come to the realization that the gunshot was fired from an Amestrian gun and the one with the bullet in his head is the Ishvalan kid, whose body drops to the ground with a sickening thud that seems to bring the rest of the sounds of the battle field to silence.

“Roy!” Hughes shouts, and all the sound comes rushing back to Mustang’s ears. The gunshots, the screams, the explosions, the death.

The sound of war.

“Roy, what the hell happened?” Hughes demands. He gives some hand gestures to the other two soldiers with him, and they spread out, probably to watch out for any incoming attackers. Hughes’s hands hit Mustang’s shoulders, and the impact startles the Flame Alchemist into realizing just how foolish he’s being. “What happened to your gloves?”

_Gone,_ is one word that crosses Mustang’s mind. _Useless,_ is the other. Instead of speaking, he just holds up his hands, making sure to show where the transmutation circle is ruined. Hughes has a look of understanding immediately. “Sorry, I got myself into a bad spot,” Mustang says, reaching through his pockets. Finally, he finds his spare pair of gloves, and tosses the ruined one he has before burning it up with a practiced snap. “We should be good to go now, so let’s keep moving.”

Mustang doesn’t do it on purpose, but the words almost feel like a lie when he says them. Hughes frowns, but that could just be from the fact that they’re going back to battle.

Mustang tries to forget that Hughes can see right through him and hurries on.

* * *

It’s a couple of nights past then, and things have been the same as always on the battlefield: receive orders, snap fingers, burn the enemy alive, return to base, get barely any sleep, repeat. The only difference is that Mustang’s stuck on the idea of what it was like to have a gun pressed against his skull, the idea of being the one to send blood flying into someone else’s mouth.

He doesn’t really want to die, but it’s the only way he can think of to get out of here that doesn’t involve suicide or injury, because being in the middle of war feels to Mustang like it’s something that’s never going to end.

Like he’ll be stuck here for the rest of his life.

“Hughes,” he whispers, hoping that the other man isn’t asleep yet. It’s just another selfish desire, because any sleep is necessary but so hard to come by when you’re lying on a thin as paper bedroll on top of rocks under an equally flimsy tent set up and there’s a chance that _someone_ will manage to sneak through the guards and kill you before you can even register what’s happening.

“What is it?” Hughes’s eyes are still closed, but his lips flutter with his whisper, and Mustang knows he’s not just imagining the response.

“Why isn’t this over?” Mustang asks, and he already feels pathetic. Like Kimblee said, Mustang knew exactly what he was getting into when he signed up to be part of the military, a state alchemist. Still, there’s a part of him gnawing at his thoughts, like it’s trying to escape his skull, one grinding motion at a time. “This whole thing…it should be over already, shouldn’t it?”

It’s stupid, but Hughes doesn’t say anything like that. Hughes will never say anything like that, so it’s up to Mustang to deal his own reality check. At this point, he doesn’t know if he’s going to be strong enough to stand the next day, but he needs to keep going, because giving up is pointless.

Letting that Ishvalan kid _shoot_ him would have been pointless, even if being slaughtered on the battlefield is far less than he deserves.

“We talked about this, right?” Hughes replies, and the two men wait in silence. Mustang remembers how Hughes has pushed him forward more times than he can count, helped him keep going. Hughes is right, they _did_ talk about this, and it’s something Mustang can’t afford to forget. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up on me,” Hughes says, managing to be stern while still speaking in a whisper.

“Nah,” Mustang says. He can’t bring himself to smile, given where they are, but he does feel a bit better. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I’ll be ready to go in the morning.”

Hughes, on the other hand—well, Mustang’s sure that Hughes is capable of smiling, no matter what. “Alright. Just checking.” He shifts a little, and Hughes’s hand pats down on Mustang’s shoulder before disappearing. “Get some rest. We still got a lot of work to get through.”

“Yeah.” Somehow, Mustang manages to fall asleep without any trouble.

* * *

When Mustang talks with Riza Hawkeye as she’s burying an Ishvalan child, he understands that no amount of bloodshed and paperwork will let the war be over, that it doesn’t have an end because it’s going to follow him and her and everyone else forever.

* * *

“It would have been easier,” Mustang comments, sitting in the back of a truck that he doesn’t really care exactly where it’s going, as long as it’s away from Ishval, “if we had died back there.”

Hughes pauses his attempts to write out a letter to Gracia, which seems to have only resulted in illegible scribbles thanks to the rocks in the road. He stares at Mustang for a few seconds before doing his best to fold up the paper carefully, and tucks it back into his pocket, corners sticking out. “Yeah, I guess it would be,” he allows, a quiver to his voice from the vibrations, “but would you really have been happy with that?”

Mustang stares down the covering over his head like he can see every detail, even when he’s not focusing on it at all. So many terrible things had happened, just like every other war, but it would have been easier to just run away from it. Even so, running away isn’t really Mustang’s style. “Not really. But you know me, I like a challenge.”

Hughes snorts, and it’s the first bit off genuine laughter that Mustang thinks he’s heard from _anyone_ this whole time. “You can say that again, Mister Aspiring Führer.”

“Oh, shut _up_.” Mustang makes a halfhearted hit to Hughes’s arm, the impact not even making an audible sound. “Say it like that and the whole army will be talking about it, then I’ll never get anywhere.” The Flame Alchemist sighs, leaning back against the wall, letting his shoulders sink. Somehow, his lips start to form a smile he isn’t fully aware of until the muscles in his cheek start to cramp from disuse. “We sure have a lot of work ahead of us now, don’t we?”

Hughes shrugs, a matching grin on his face. “Like you said, you like a challenge, Roy.”

And somehow their chuckles become laughter, and Ishval slowly disappears from the view out the back of the truck. He’ll never be able to leave the war behind, but Mustang decides he can deal with that.

Letting something end is too permanent anyways.


End file.
